


The Two Earls Phantomhive

by Phoenix_of_Athena



Series: The one where the twins grow up together [2]
Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Adult Ciel Phantomhive, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempted Murder, Background Relationships, Brotherly Affection, Case Fic, Ciel Phantomhive is Scary, Deception, Gen, Implied Manipulation, Major Character Injury, Manipulation, Mistaken Identity, Non-Graphic Violence, POV Outsider, The Phantomhive Family Wasn't Attacked, The Phantomhive Twins, also, the twins get along in this okay?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-24 11:48:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20705489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenix_of_Athena/pseuds/Phoenix_of_Athena
Summary: Phantomhive had pushed his wife behind him, and was staring at the gunman in naked shock.  Behind them, the bottle of wine that had been struck spilled over the white tablecloth and dripped down onto the floor.  The room was stricken silent, the small string orchestra engaged to play having screeched to nothing with the firing of the gun.“Please…” Phantomhive said in a wavering voice, pressing Lady Phantomhive further back and reaching out as if he could halt the gunman from fifteen feet away.The dark figure with the pistol said nothing; he only fired again, and disappeared through a side doorway as the earl crumpled to the floor.





	The Two Earls Phantomhive

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in the same universe as In Your Shadow, which, while not being spectacularly written, does set up the 'verse.

Michael Taylor had never met Earl Phantomhive before. 

This is because Michael was what one would call new money—he was a self-made man, coming from an upper middle class family and quickly establishing himself as someone who knew business and the money market. It was only recently that he had gained enough repute to move in the correct social circles and even have a chance of meeting with the young earl—and the earl _was_ young, a man of only twenty-seven years, newly titled after the sudden passing of his father overseas. And yet, Earl Ciel Phantomhive had inherited his position with grace, stepping into his duties naturally despite the mourning period he must be going through. 

Gossip had flowed about the Phantomhives after Vincent Phantomhive’s passing: of how Rachel Phantomhive, the wife of the previous earl, had secluded herself in the manor house for months; how the earl’s younger brother had raced back into the country, abandoning his business dealings in Germany to support his brother. 

Michael, being both a newcomer and neutral party, had been subjected to much hearsay, and as a result he knew more than he ever intended to about the Phantomhives. And what he learned was this: that the earl was clever and competent, and it was worth the effort of getting on his good side, for the sake of future business ventures. 

Currently, Earl Phantomhive was talking to Mr. Lau, the manager of a flourishing trading company, and the wheelchair-bound Dr. Sieglinde Sullivan, both of who were long-time associates of the earl. As he watched, the young earl bent to whisper something to Sullivan, who hid a giggle behind one hand and clutched at Phantomhive’s arm with the other. The earl spared a moment to look satisfied with himself, before he cast a glance around the room and caught Michael’s eyes.

Embarrassed at being caught staring, Michael diverted his gaze back to the entrées on the table beside him, only to look up moments later at the soft clearing of a throat.

“Hello,” Earl Phantomhive said, extending a hand, “Michael Taylor, correct? Merchant Banker?”

“Oh. Yes,” said Michael, shaking it firmly. The earl had a steady grip.

“And you’re Earl Phantomhive.”

“That’s me, I’m afraid,” he said with an amused sort of smile, spreading his arms; as he did so, the light of the chandeliers caught the dark sapphire ring on his hand, a large and slightly odd piece of jewelry for a man, though certainly opulent enough for his station. 

“Tell me,” Phantomhive said conversationally, “how do you know our host?”

“Oh, Lord Allen?” said Michael, thinking fondly of the friend who had invited him to this event, “I work closely with him in matters of finance. He’s very keen….” Michael trailed off, looking at Phantomhive with narrow eyes, and watched a sharp sort of smile come over his boyish face.

“I see you’ve seen right through me,” said the earl, “There’s a reason I approached you. You see, I’m actually in need of your expertise. I’m sure I can trust you not to spread it around, but Lord Allen was a friend of my father’s, and I’m afraid he might be in some financial trouble. Perhaps, with your assistance, I could gain enough information to support his interests without him finding out. You know how proud we old families can be; I’m sure he wouldn’t like to accept any charity, even from a friend.”

He smiled earnestly.

“Ah,” said Michael, “and I suppose that I should just take your word on that? Believe in this supposed friendship you have with Lord Allen—even though you’ve hardly ever been seen together? How do I know you aren’t looking to find some weakness to undermine our host?”

Earl Phantomhive stared at him for a moment; then he threw back his head and laughed. His cheery peels drew eyes from all corners, especially as the earl bent double, clasping a hand to his breast.

As his chuckles began to die down, he looked at Michael with piercing blue eyes that glittered darkly despite the light.

“I think I like you, Taylor,” he declared with a smile. Something about the expression was intimidating, for all its innocent cheer, and Michael gave a weak grin of his own.

“Well, I thank you for that,” he said, “but I still can’t tell you anything without our host’s consent. That would be a breach of trust, I’m afraid, and I haven’t come this far by ignoring business ethics.”

Phantomhive huffed.

“A good man, indeed,” he said, “I shall have to see about employing you in the future, then. Loyalty like that is difficult to come by, these days. Well, let us turn our conversation to other things, then. Tell me, have you seen Lady Allen this evening?”

“Lord Allen’s wife? I’m afraid I haven’t. I was informed by the Lord that she had taken ill some time ago, and has been indisposed since.”

“Hmm,” said the earl, scanning an eye over the partygoers in the room, “interesting. How about Henry Allen? Is he here tonight, or has he taken ill as well?”

Here Michael paused, remembering. Lord Allen’s son, Henry, had been absent from their business meetings as of late, but there had been no mention of illness from him. He said as much.

The earl looked smug.

“Thank you,” he said, giving Michael the briefest glimpse of smile before he seemed to catch sight of something across the room and disappeared with a farewell. 

Michael watched his back as he went, the dark form of his suit disappearing amongst the crowd.

He didn’t think he _liked_ Ciel Phantomhive. The man was slippery, and Michael wasn’t sure if anything he said could be taken at face value. Still, he was an interesting character, and he found himself deciding to keep an ear out for any further gossip that came along.

The party wound on, and the sky outside sunk into dusk. Couples took to the dance floor, and for the first time, Michael caught sight of Elizabeth Phantomhive, the wife of the earl. 

They were dancing elegantly, hands placed delicately at the other’s shoulders and waist. Phantomhive spun them in a swell of skirts and golden curls, and Michael caught a glimpse of an odd, tense expression on Lady Phantomhive’s face. That was slightly strange, but not enough to matter, really. Perhaps there was trouble in paradise. The thought made him chuckle, and, taking a sip of his champagne, Michael allowed his thoughts to wander.

And that was when the shot rang out.

Glass shattered, and there was a flurry of movement as someone in a dark coat with a scarf covering their face raised his gun again, pointing it straight at the young Earl Phantomhive. 

Phantomhive had pushed his wife behind him, and was staring at the gunman in naked shock. Behind them, the bottle of wine that had been struck spilled over the white tablecloth and dripped down onto the floor. The room was stricken silent, the small string orchestra engaged to play having screeched to nothing with the firing of the gun.

“Please…” Phantomhive said in a wavering voice, pressing Lady Phantomhive further back and reaching out as if he could halt the gunman from fifteen feet away. 

The dark figure with the pistol said nothing; he only fired again, and disappeared through a side doorway as the earl crumpled to the floor.

The room burst into movement. Several gentlemen charged after the gunman, voices clamoring in horror and surprise, and Lady Phantomhive went to her knees beside her husband as he fell.

“No!” she cried, uncaring as to any witnesses of her distress, “No, no, please don’t do this! You can’t! Don’t you dare die here, you, you—you cannot die here!”

She had pressed her hands against the earl’s bloodied side, and her face was something fierce.

“Don’t you dare die on us,” she hissed into Phantomhive’s ear as Michael ran forward alongside others, stripping off his coat and dropping to the floor beside them.

“Here,” he said, urgently, pushing Elizabeth’s hands away from the wound and pressing his wadded coat against the injury, “My father was a doctor, let me—!”

And Elizabeth gripped the earl’s lapels with bloody hands, staring down into his pale and sweaty face.

“Don’t you dare die on us,” she said again as the room writhed in chaos all around them. 

Michael pressed his hands more firmly to the wound, and watched the dark blood stain into the brown of his jacket.

“Lizzy,” gasped the earl, “It will be okay.” 

His voice was wrecked, his breast heaving with stuttering breaths.

She shook her head, wordlessly, and he smiled up at her.

“It’s okay,” he said, gasping hoarsely, “It’s okay. I don’t regret it, I don’t, and don’t you—please don’t let it go to waste. Lizzy—” he gasped, and his hand caught the neckline of her dress and pulled her down so that his lips were against her ear.

Michael didn’t hear what was said then, because at that moment, Doctor Sullivan finally managed to push through the throng to their side, and Michael was dragged away. Earl Phantomhive was raced out of the room with the petite doctor at his side, and Michael stood with bloody hands in just his shirtsleeves, until he was gently chivvied to wash up.

Sometime later, he ended up next to Lord Allen, watching police swarm over the place.

The man looked terrible, trembling and sweating as he watched the room. His eyes kept jumping to the windows and the doors, and he was rolling an empty wineglass in his hands.

“This is a disaster,” he said vaguely in Michael’s direction.

“A disaster, a complete disaster. And Earl Phantomhive! Of all the foolish things!” 

His eyes flitted nervously around the room again, and Michael put a hand on his shoulder.

Allen looked up in surprise, as if suddenly realizing that he was talking to someone.

“Lord Allen—Charles—please calm down,” Michael said, attempting to be soothing, “The doctor was here; he may still be fine.”

“Fine!” Lord Allen exclaimed, reeling back, “Nothing will be fine! The Queen’s Watchdog was just shot in my house! Excuse me!” and he stormed away, out into the hall, and Michael stood against the wall and watched the policemen examine the room. They would be interviewing the party guests soon, he imagined, looking down at the bloodstains on his rolled up shirtsleeves. Beside him, someone spoke up.

“Mr. Taylor, right?” they said, and Michael turned to see Lady Phantomhive there. She had cleaned up, much as he had, and the sleeves of her dress were damp and discolored where the blood had been scrubbed away.

“Lady Phantomhive!” he exclaimed, “Yes—yes, that’s me. Are you all right?”

“I will be fine,” Lady Elizabeth said softly, her eyes downcast, “I wanted to thank you. You reacted so quickly, and helped keep my husband with us. You have my gratitude.”

“It—you don’t have to thank me,” he stammered, “tell me, how is your husband?”

“Dr. Sullivan has him,” said Elizabeth, “which is the best as can be wished. She’s brilliant, and she’ll do everything in her power to save him. She’s…she’s engaged to his younger brother, you know? If Ciel died…I doubt that she would ever forgive herself.”

“Oh,” said Michael, “I wasn’t aware….”

“They’ve kept it quiet,” Elizabeth said, “Sieglinde and my brother are good friends before anything else; theirs was not a romantic courtship. It is a partnership of great minds, more than anything.” She paused.

“Tell me, Michael? May I call you Michael? Only, you did help to save my husband.”

“Yes, of course,” he said, “You may call me whatever you wish.”

“Michael, then,” said Lady Phantomhive, “And you must call me Elizabeth. Tell me, Michael, I saw you speaking to Lord Allen. Did he say anything strange to you? He seemed nervous, when I passed him in the hall.”

“Nervous, yes,” Michael said, breathing out a sigh, “he was very nervous; he kept looking around the room as if he expected the gunman to come back—oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said—”

“It’s all right,” said Elizabeth, placing a slim hand on his arm, “but what did he say?”

Michael told her, and the lady frowned.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, “You’ve been a great help to us. It’s been some time now, and I must return to my husband’s side.”

“Yes, of course,” said Michael, and watched her turn to go. She was a beautiful woman, truly, with golden curls piled high on her head and striking green eyes. The way she moved was graceful, even in this time of misery, and he respected the strength with which she held herself.

He remained on his own, watching people come and go, and it was some time before he was pulled in for questioning by the police. He gave his testimony in full, describing his actions and the appearance of the shooter as best he could, before he was dismissed. 

As he left the Allens’ home he caught sight of someone else on the grounds, and paused. 

The figure was hurrying towards the house on foot, heading towards the side of the manor, and as Michael watched, someone else stepped from the shadows to meet them; to his shock, he realized that it was Lord Allen creeping in the dark as if he did not belong. 

The two appeared to exchange strong words, and to Michael’s horror, he watched Lord Allen strike the other figure, sending him sprawling to the ground. Before Michael could call out, the figure had sprung to his feet, shouted something that he could not make out, and ran once more from the house. Lord Allen stood and stared after them for a long moment, before he turned, and caught sight of Michael watching him. Michael could not see his face, but something about his posture in that moment terrified him, and he was quick to take his leave.

He could not have expected the attempt that was made on his own life only that night.

Ever a light sleeper, he was woken by a sound in the hall. Living alone as he did, Michael’s first thought was of a burglar, and he was quick to creep to his feet and clutch the iron candlestick from his bedside in his hand. 

Moving silently, he went to stand just behind where the door would open. The doorknob turned slowly as he watched, and the door opened with the slightest creak. He had time enough to catch sight of a dark hood and the gun in the figure’s hand before he struck out with the candlestick. 

The gun clattered across the floor and the figure grunted as their hand was struck. Michael lunged forward again, only for the intruder to dive for the gun. There was a scuffle as Michael tackled the other to the floor. The man was large, and his grip was strong as he tossed Michael off his shoulders, rolling across the floor to where the pistol had landed underneath the wardrobe. Michael scrambled for it at the same time as the man; in the tumble, the gun was knocked again across the floor and out of reach, sliding to the wall against the windows. Michael had the candlestick wrenched from his grip, and held his arms to fend off the blow of metal. Something cracked in his arm as his assailant struck him, and with a cry, he recoiled back into the floor. 

The figure lashed out, striking him in the ribs, and Michael scrabbled at him, kicking, and managed to wrench the bastard off of him. His attacker went for the gun again, and Michael tackled him, diving over the bed to shove him into the window. The glass shattered against their weight, the figure toppling through it with a cry. Michael himself only barely caught himself on the window ledge, panting, and watched the figure fall into the bushes below.

Taking up the gun in his good hand, Michael charged out of the room and down the stairs, bursting through the door and into the street. Clad in only his nightshirt, he raced around the side of the building underneath his window—and found the bushes empty. His attacker had disappeared.

Michael then returned inside, and dressed shakily before he contacted the police. 

The remainder of the night passed in a disjointed haze, as Michael recounted what had happened, and had his broken arm set in a splint and sling. He _ached_, not just in his arm but from the bruises from slamming more than once into the walls and floor, and from the other strikes of the candlestick. He was lucky that his ribs had not been broken too, they said, but in that moment Michael could not imagine how he could possibly feel worse.

It was morning by the time he finally left the constable’s station, staggering out into the sunlight in pallor and disarray. He ought to see about fixing his bedroom window, the thought, looking for a cab he could take home.

The carriage that pulled up in front of him was not for hire. It had smooth dark paint, and heavy curtained windows, and when the door swung open, someone with a smooth voice said,

“Michael Taylor, allow me to offer you a ride.”

Michael balked.

“Sorry,” he said, “but I’ve just been attacked, so you’ll have to forgive me if I don’t take carriage rides from strangers.”

There came a dark chuckle, and the man inside leaned out of the carriage’s shadows.

“Come now,” he said, “we aren’t really strangers, are we?”

“Earl Phan—” Michael said, shocked, only for the earl to place a finger against his lips, in a universal gesture of _hush_.

“Please, Mr. Taylor, give me the honor of your company this morning. In light of recent events, I believe we have a few things we should discuss.”

“Ah. Ah, of course,” Michael said, and stepped up into the carriage as the earl reclined back into the shadows.

“Are you truly well?” was the first thing Michael asked as the door was closed behind him.

“Should you be on your feet so soon? I can’t imagine—I’ve only broken my arm, and I’m completely haggard, but you seem fine!”

Earl Phantomhive surveyed him silently from across the cabin, both hands clasped over the top of his cane. On one finger was a Phantomhive signet ring, but the great blue stone from last night was not there. 

“Tell me, Mr. Taylor,” he said coldly, “Why would someone want you dead?”

And Michael flinched back into his seat. The earl…he had never seen him look this cruel before; but now, cast half in shadow and dressed immaculately, sitting straight as if he had never been shot—cruel was how he looked. It was different from the sly cunning of the night before, all masks of pleasantry completely dropped now that he had Michael alone before him.

“De—dead?” he said, “I don’t—it was just a burglary. No one would want me dead!”

“Just as no one would want _me_ dead,” said the earl.

“What do you know, Michael Taylor, that would make them try to kill you?”

Michael gaped.

“I don’t—I don’t know anything! I don’t even know who I should be worried about knowing about—about. Unless.”

He stared at the earl.

“You were asking a lot of questions about Lord Allen last night. And afterwards, afterwards your wife did too! She approached me, even though you were in surgery, and asked me what Lord Allen had said! But that—he is my _friend._ We’ve worked together for _years._ Lord Charles Allen would never want me dead!”

“You place a great deal of trust in your business partner, don’t you?” Phantomhive said idly, leaning forward over the space between them.

“Whatever did Lord Allen do to earn such loyalty? Well, no matter. Just tell me: is there anything else you know, that you did not tell me or my wife? It is a matter of life and death, I assure you.”

Michael stared at that cold, boyish face across the cabin. Life or _death._ He could be dead. And Earl Phantomhive—he could have been killed, no matter how impossibly well he seemed at present. The blood on his hands last night had been terrifyingly real. And the earl had been shot after making inquiries about their host.

“I—very well,” said Michael.

“I’ll tell you. But now I _know_ that you were lying when you tried to get information out of me last night; Lord Allen is certainly not a friend to you at all.”

“Hm, is that how he went about it?” said the earl, pursing his lips.

“Well, tell me all—as well as whatever might have changed last night for you to lose his faith.”

“Last night—yes,” said Michael, “I saw him meet with someone on the grounds last night, as I was leaving. They came on foot, and Lord Allen looked like he was trying not to be seen. They appeared to argue, and Charles struck him off his feet. Then the person stormed away, and, and I think Lord Allen saw me watching him. But I don’t even know what that means! How…” he trailed off, and buried his head in his hands.

“How could that make him want me dead,” he moaned, “he’s been my friend for _years_.”

Earl Phantomhive watched him fall apart indifferently.

“And what I asked about last night?” he said.

“His finances,” Michael croaked.

“You asked about his finances. And you were right; he is not faring well, his recent business venture fell through in Italy, and we’ve been trying to keep afloat. He doesn’t want to let on that he’s hardly wealthy anymore; he can’t let the lifestyle go, and he needs the money to care for his wife. Mary has tuberculosis. Her breathing…she’s gone to a hospital in the countryside, but it’s not looking well, and Charles is desperate. His wife is very sick, and his son has left them to it, not even bothering to show up to our meetings anymore. I think…Charles might have gotten involved in something he shouldn’t have. There’s no way he could afford to keep her there, and with her health declining, she needs the doctors.”

He looked up at the earl.

“There!” he cried, “I’ve spilled it all! Is that what you wanted to know? That my friend has been at his wits end about his wife slowly dying, unable to even breathe, with him away in the city doing everything he can for her excepting being by her side because he can’t afford to!? And now he wants me _dead,_ and I probably deserve it for spreading this around.”

As Michael watched, the earl’s face seemed to soften under his diatribe, his high brows slowly furrowing. 

“You do not,” he said, “deserve to be dead. You’ve done nothing wrong even now, Mr. Taylor. And I’m beginning to think that neither has Lord Allen.”

“What?” said Michael.

“You have my thanks, Mr. Tylor. You have been a great deal of help, and with luck, we shall have your attacker behind bars soon. Now, we have arrived at your residence, and I believe you ought to rest those injuries of yours. Have you taken the pain medicine that was given to you?”

“I…” said Michael, “I’ve taken half a dose. But you—you can’t just expect me to leave like this? And what about _you?_ Surely you ought to rest as well! My father was a doctor; I simply cannot believe you are recovered so soon.”

The earl gave him a slim smile, and popped open the carriage door.

“I thank you for your concern,” he said, “but I assure you, _I _am quite well. Perhaps when this is done, we shall see about having you for tea. You seem like you’re a good man, Mr. Taylor. I think I like you; perhaps we could see about working together in the future.”

“You…” said Michael, blinking at him. He’d just had the strangest moment of déjà vu.

“Right.” His arm _was_ rather aching, and his head had gotten more difficult to keep up as the conversation wore on; without the high of his emotions, weariness was taking its toll.

“I’ll go, but. I do hope you’ll tell me what’s going on. And that you rest as well! You were shot!”

Earl Phantomhive had the audacity to laugh at that, watching him go, and soon Michael was standing on his front step and watching the carriage pull away. Behind him, the front door opened, and then his sister was there, sweeping him up in her arms.

“Emily, what—?”

But, that was right, he’d sent word to his family that he’d been injured. That was right.

He allowed her to guide him inside, and usher him into the guest room to rest.

He recovered well over the next few weeks, and although his arm was still in a sling when the invitation for tea arrived by mail, his bruises had long since faded.

Michael stared down at Earl Phantomhive’s invitation to visit the family’s London townhouse, and willingly accepted, sending back a note that he would arrive on Friday as appointed. 

He wasn’t sure what to expect from the well-to-do home he approached that morning, and he found himself shuffling nervously on the step as he waited at the door. Soon enough, he was ushered inside by the Phantomhive’s elderly butler, and shown to a small, lavishly decorated sitting room. There he was met by three people, two of whom were seated in oddly sleek looking wheelchairs. One of them was, of course, Dr Sullivan, who as he understood it had been unable to walk without pain since childhood. The other, to his shock, was Earl Phantomhive, who looked up at him with a smile playing on his lips. The third person in the room was the one to greet him.

“Michael!” exclaimed Lady Phantomhive, springing to her feet to greet him with a warm hug he felt was underserved. 

“Er, Lady Elizabeth,” he said, hands lightly fluttering at her shoulders, “It’s good to see you well?”

Behind her, Earl Phantomhive laughed.

“Lizzy, you’re unnerving the poor man,” he said, “Not everyone is used to your enthusiasm.”

Elizabeth pulled back with a blush, and shot a frankly childish look at the man in the wheelchair.

“Sorry,” she said to Michael, and then to Phantomhive:

“It’s not as if you have room to talk, you know. You and your brother inadvertently did much worse. He did tell me how out of sorts poor Michael was throughout their carriage ride.”

“Sorry, what?” said Michael, and behind him, the door to the sitting room was opened again to admit a final person.

“Oh, he’s already here, I see,” said…Earl Phantomhive? From where he was standing in the doorway?

Michael looked between the man in the wheelchair and the man at the door.

“Wait,” he said, and the other occupants of the room began to smile.

“Wait, if you’re…and you’re _brothers._ No one mentioned _twins_! But who’s the real Earl, then?”

“That would be me,” said the Phantomhive who was standing, “Allow me to properly introduce myself, since I never actually had the chance. I’m Ciel Phantomhive, and thanks to your assistance, we were able to arrest Henry Allen for his involvement in drug smuggling and attempted murder.”

“Henry!” exclaimed Michael, and sunk down onto one of the plush armchairs in the room.

“And Charles?”

“Your friend is well,” said the other Phantomhive.

“He was aware of what his son had been doing to earn them money, but he tried to put a stop to it.”

“But then, Mary? She’s so ill, and without the funds….”

Dr. Sullivan spoke up, then.

“I’ve been working on a treatment for tuberculosis, actually,” she said, “and I offered to take her as a patient, provided she would accept my form of treatment. It’s a bit risky, but nothing else has worked so far regardless, so it isn’t so much as a gamble as it seems.”

“Oh,” said Michael, and stared around the room.

“But then, why were _you_ pretending to be Earl Phantomhive?” he asked.

“Easy,” drawled the young man in the wheelchair, who was sitting…beside his fiancé, Michael realized, the same young woman who had doubtlessly saved his life.

“I was serving as a body double. Ciel needed to get away and do some investigating, and I was his alibi.” He looked at his brother, whose face had gone pained.

“And don’t you even start, Ciel. I’d do it again in a heartbeat. You’re my brother. And it isn’t your fault. We both knew that one of the Allens might try something, but neither of us expected me to be shot at the party.”

Earl Phantomhive sighed, and came to sit down with the rest of them.

“Fine,” he said, “fine. You know how I feel, anyway.” He cleared his throat. 

“Now, how about tea? I’m sure I promised tea, and perhaps a working relationship.”

And, well. Say what you would about Earl Phantomhive, but the earl was certainly clever and competent, and it was worth the effort of remaining on his good side for the sake of future business ventures.

“Tea sounds wonderful.”

**Author's Note:**

> My only real experience with written mysteries of any sort is reading Sherlock Holmes. And while this isn't really a mystery, per say, I still probably leaned on ACD's work thematically, or via word choice. It's just...that Victorian aesthetic! (And, gosh, now I want to go rewatch the classic tv version of Sherlock Holmes. I have the complete series on dvd.) :)


End file.
